Page 33 of The Boy I Hate

Renee’s mom leaned against the counter, watching her two almost grown children banter like politicians, but there were tears in her eyes. “You kids aren’t going anywhere tonight!” she stated. “I just got you back, and we’re going out to dinner to celebrate. Now go get ready!” she ordered. “Your dad’s working late again; you kids aren’t leaving mealone.”

She turned to Samantha, her voice softening a bit more. “Call your parents, dear. See if you canjoinus.”

Samantha only shook her head, tucked her hair behind her ear, and looked down to her feet. “No, I really couldn’t—I don’t want tointrude.”

“Nonsense, dear.” Mrs. Montgomery said, then picked up the phone and started dialing. “I’ll call them. You go getready.”

Samantha swallowed, unable to look Tristan in the eyes as she passed him in the hall. She followed Renee up the stairs, her back straight as she started climbing. She told herself not to look back, even though she desperately wanted to. To see if he was watching her. To see if five months without seeing her was enough to erase their past. To erase the one night she thought about daily. And she didn’t stop until she entered Renee’s room and closed the door, realizing that for some reason, her heart hurt worse seeing him now than it had the night they came home fromthelake.

13

ChapterThirteen

Presentday

By the timethey stopped at their next hotel, they’d been on the road for thirteen hours straight. She could hardly see, hardly walk, and Tristan looked muchthesame.

Like before, they went to their separate rooms right next door to one another, where Samantha sent a text to check in with Steven, then took a shower and laid out her things for the nextmorning.

She was about to climb into bed when a soft tap at her motel door made her heart lurch to her throat. She thought about ignoring it, but it came again, followed by Tristan’s deep voice. “Samantha, it’s me. Are you stillawake?”

She hadn’t turned out the lights yet, so pretending she was already asleep was out of the question. She climbed out of bed, straightened her large t-shirt over her breasts, and opened the door. “Did you need something?” sheasked.

He was wearing the same gray sweats he had on that morning, though now he wore a tank top, cut low on the sides to reveal his arms. He was gripping his skull so hard it looked painful, as he tilted his head in apology. “Sorry to bother you, but I have one hell of a headache. I was wondering if you had anyaspirin?”

He looked so pathetic, she immediately opened the door wider, gesturing for him to come inside. “Yeah, I think I do, let me gocheck.”

He walked in and closed the door behind him, where she waved him toward the bed and told him tositdown.

“How long have you had it?” she asked, digging through her toiletry bag, looking for anything thatwouldhelp.

“A few hours…though it keeps gettingworse.”

She paused holding a small bottle of lotion, realizing she’d been sitting beside him in the car and hadn’t noticed. He’d been suffering silently and hadn’t said anything. She found a small bottle of Motrin in the bottom of her makeup bag, filled a glass with water, and brought them overtohim.

“Here, take this,” she said, placing two pills in his hand and waiting for him to take thewater.

He placed them on his tongue, threw his head back, and finished the whole glass. But he didn’t move, only sat there, his eyes still closed as though he was inimmensepain.

She sat down on the bed beside him, feeling helpless and not knowing what elsetodo.

He cupped his forehead as though willing it to stop pounding. “Sorry to bombard you like this. I’ll leave in asecond—”

“Stay as long as you need,” she interrupted. Her voice nervous—even to her own ears, but he didn’t seem to notice. He just sat there with his eyes closed, and eventually the crease in his forehead began tosoften.

The sight of it made her relax. Why seeing him in pain bothered her so much she wasn’t sure, but she was anxious for him to start feeling better. She glanced down at the quilted bedspread, finding a loose thread and began wrapping it around her finger. “Honestly, I’m surprised by hownottired I am,” she muttered. Which was the truth. She’d been exhausted just the moment before, but now she had adrenaline pumping through herveins.

He grinned a little, the action softening his features and making her smile. He nodded then, tilting his head a little to the side. “Thankyou.”

“For what?” Sheasked.

“This.”

He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask him to. She looked up again, finding his eyes still closed, and a couple day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks. Though now his hair was damp, and she knew he must have taken a shower. She couldn’t pull her eyes away. They drifted over his perfect arms, to the scar on his right shoulder, where she could see it much better than she had the night before. The room was so quiet you could hear crickets chirping in the background, even the wind whistling softly outside. It was so relaxing she couldn’t keep her mind from wandering—to the night Renee and her family had left on a sudden road trip to visit Tristan. It was three years ago, yet the scar was so pink it almost lookedfresh.

When she looked up again, Tristan’s eyes were on hers. She bit her inner cheek and turned in the opposite direction. “Sorry, I just don’t remember you having that scar last time Isawyou.”

“That’s okay,” he said, and she turned once again to face him. His hand was now on his shoulder, cupping the scar inhispalm.

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